After only a handful of days of packing and frantic preparation for the Roma Festa del Cioccolato, she was in Rome. Alone. For the time being, at least. She’d been in the Eternal City for two days, most of which had been spent finalizing her plans for her entry in the contest’s artisan division. Her first stop upon arriving at Aeroporto Fiumicino had been the Altare della Patria—the building more commonly known as the Wedding Cake. She’d had her taxi driver take her there even before going to her hotel. With the windows of the little white car rolled down, they’d driven through the outskirts of the city where old met new and clothes dried on outdoor laundry lines strung across tightly packed, semi-modern-looking apartment balconies. The closer the car had crawled to the historic heart of Rome, the narrower the streets became. Pavement gave way to cobblestone, and when they’d passed through the gates of the Aurelian Wall, they left all traces of the modern world behind.
